In half an hour Sherlock Holmes and I reached the house at 131 Pitt Street. As our cab pulled up, we found the sidewalk lined by a crowd of curious people, including several messenger boys. Holmes let out a low whistle.
"It must be attempted murder at least, Watson," he said. "Nothing less will hold the attention of a London messenger boy and keep him from his work."
Lestrade was looking out the front window as if eagerly anticipating our arrival. Before entering the house, Holmes inspected the top steps, which had been washed down with water.
"There is no shortage of footprints," muttered Holmes. "Ah, Lestrade!" he said as the inspector opened the door for us.
"It's the Napoleon bust business again, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade.
"What has happened?" asked Holmes.
"A murder!" replied the inspector. "Come this way."
Lestrade led us into a sitting room where a disheveled elderly man was pacing the floor in his flannel bathrobe. The inspector introduced him as Mr. Horace Harker, a journalist and the owner of the house.
"Mr. Harker, will you tell these gentlemen exactly what has happened?" asked Lestrade.
The man in the bathrobe looked at us with a melancholy face.
"It's an extraordinary thing," said Mr. Harker. "All my life I've been writing other people's stories for the newspapers. But now that a real piece of news has landed on my own doorstep, I am so confused and upset that I'm unable to write a word."
"I can't help you if you don't tell us your story," said Holmes as we sat down.
"Well, I'll try," said Mr. Harker. "It all seems to involve that bust of Napoleon that I bought for this room about four months ago. I purchased it from the Harding Brothers store in the neighborhood."
He told us that he was often up late working on his stories. Around three o'clock that morning he was writing in his upstairs den when he thought he heard noises downstairs. He listened carefully but heard nothing more.
"Suddenly there came a horrible yell, the most dreadful sound that I've ever heard, Mr. Holmes. I sat frozen with horror for a minute. Then I seized the poker from the fireplace and went downstairs."
Mr. Harker entered the room in which we were now sitting and found the bust gone and the front window open.
"I stepped out the front door and nearly fell over a dead man lying on the steps!" said Mr. Harker. "It was a most gruesome sight. I called for help and then I must have fainted because the next thing I remember, a policeman was standing over me in the front hall."
"Who was the murdered man?" asked Holmes.
"We don't know," said Lestrade, who went on to say that the man was tall, powerfully built, sunburned, and not more than thirty years old. He was poorly dressed but didn't appear to be a laborer. A knife was found on the steps next to him.
"We don't know whether the knife belonged to the murdered man or was the weapon that killed him," said Lestrade. "There was no identification on him and nothing in his pockets except an apple, some string, a cheap map of London, and this photograph."
He showed us a picture of a man with thick, dark eyebrows.
After a careful study of the photograph, Holmes asked, "And what became of the bust?"
"We had news of it just before you arrived," said Lestrade. "It was discovered in the front yard of an empty house nearby. It was broken like the others. I'm going over there now to see it. Will you come with me?"
"Certainly, but first I must take a look around," said Holmes.
After he had thoroughly studied the room, the window, and the front door, we went in search of the broken statue. We found the pieces scattered over the lawn of the empty house. Holmes picked up several pieces and carefully examined them. From the intent look on his face, I was convinced that he had found a clue.
"Well, Holmes, what do you think?" asked Lestrade.
"It is revealing that the thief did not break the bust in the house or immediately outside it."
"He was probably rattled by meeting that other fellow," said Lestrade. "The dead man."
"Likely so, but what do you notice that's different about this house?" asked Holmes.
"It's an empty house, so he knew he wouldn't be disturbed when he broke the bust," said Lestrade.
"But we passed another empty house on our way to this one," I said. "Why didn't he break it there? Every extra step increased the chance that he'd meet someone on the street."
Holmes pointed to the nearby streetlamp. "He could see what he was doing here."
"So what are we to do with that fact?" asked Lestrade.
"Remember it because it may come in useful later," said Holmes. "What steps do you propose to take now, Lestrade?"
"The most practical way of solving the case is to identify the dead man. Then we'll have a good start on learning why he was on Pitt Street last night and who killed him. Don't you agree?"
"Yes, and yet it's not quite the way that I would approach the case," said Holmes.
"What would you do?" asked Lestrade.
"Oh, you mustn't let me influence you. I suggest that you go your way and I'll go mine.
But if you're going back to Pitt Street, tell Mr. Harker that the man in his house last night was a dangerous homicidal lunatic with a fixation on Napoleon."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "You don't seriously believe that?"
Holmes smiled. "Well, perhaps I don't. But I'm sure that my revelation will interest Mr. Harker and the readers of his newspaper."
Holmes asked Lestrade if he might keep the photograph and arranged for the Scotland Yard inspector to meet us at Baker Street at six o'clock. Holmes and I then went on to the Harding Brothers shop where Mr. Harker had purchased his statue. But Mr. Harding was out until the afternoon. From there we made our way back to Morse Hudson's shop, a trip of almost ten miles.
Morse Hudson was a short, stout man with a red face. "Why do we pay taxes for police protection when any thug could come in and break one's goods?" he asked with more than a trace of agitation.
He told us that he had bought all three busts—the one that had been on his counter and the two belonging to Dr. Barnicot—from a sculpture factory called Gelder and Company. Holmes showed him the photograph of the man with bushy eyebrows.
"Why, that's Beppo!" exclaimed Mr. Hudson. "He was an Italian fellow who used to do odd jobs for me around the shop. He could carve a little and frame pictures."
"Where is he now?" asked Holmes.
"I have no idea," replied Mr. Hudson. "He quit two days before the bust was smashed here, and I haven't heard from him since."